


Something is Seriously Wrong with Stiles Stilinski

by RerumTechnologies



Series: General Ficlets and Fuckery [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Apathetic Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Psychopath Stiles Stilinski, Sociopath Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25758496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RerumTechnologies/pseuds/RerumTechnologies
Summary: This was on tumblr for the longest time and since I deleted that account I decided to stick it here! Apathetic stiles who basically comes off as sociopathic? psychotic? one of thoseThat’s what people say when they think he can’t hear them. “Seriously Wrong” with a capital S and a capital W. Possibly verbal italics if they’re really feeling it. He can’t really blame them. Something is Seriously Wrong with him. His dad knows it. Scott knows it. He knows they know, even if they never say anything.He doesn’t really think there’s anything wrong. This is just how it is. Scott worries. Dad too. But this is just… how he is.Stiles walks through life in perpetual apathy. Nothing matters. Everything is muted colours and unimportant noises. Scott and Dad and Melissa hover just above the line. He actually cares about them. He can hear them. He can focus on them and care, and it really hurts.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: General Ficlets and Fuckery [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868614
Comments: 10
Kudos: 367





	Something is Seriously Wrong with Stiles Stilinski

Something is Seriously Wrong with Stiles Stilinski.

That’s what people say when they think he can’t hear them. “Seriously Wrong” with a capital S and a capital W. Possibly verbal italics if they’re really feeling it. He can’t really blame them. Something _is_ Seriously Wrong with him. His dad knows it. Scott knows it. He knows they know, even if they never say anything.

He doesn’t really think there’s anything wrong. This is just how it is. Scott worries. Dad too. But this is just… how he is.

Stiles walks through life in perpetual apathy. Nothing matters. Everything is muted colours and unimportant noises. Scott and Dad and Melissa hover just above the line. He actually cares about them. He can _hear_ them. He can focus on them and care, and it really hurts.

So, he doesn’t do it a lot.

He’s been like this since his mother died. Dad thinks that’s why he closed off. But Stiles remembers at least a year of hurt and pain and crying and Dad drinking and Stiles feeling. Why wouldn’t he have turned it off then? Why didn’t he turn it off when his father was passing out in the living room with a bottle under one arm and tears still running down his face? When he couldn’t even look at Stiles because he reminded him too much of Mom?

Why’d he wait until the worst of it had passed?

It doesn’t really matter.

He kind of floats through his day and just… exists. His mind goes a thousand miles a minute. He doesn’t really pay attention to his teachers, but he does his homework and aces all his tests. They all try to call on him early in the year, but after a month or two, they stop. They give up. Stiles is brilliant, they tell his dad, but he needs to work on participation.

Why should he?

The only reason he has good grades, he goes to school, wakes up in the morning at all is because he has Dad and Scott. Melissa, too he supposes. But only by extension. It would upset Scott if something upset Melissa. The only reason he hasn’t killed himself is that he has them to take care of. Dad wouldn’t survive another loss.

He thinks that he used to care about Lydia Martin, at some point. She’s just a little brighter than everyone else, a little less muffled than the other pedestrians. She’s closer to Scott and Dad and Melissa’s level of his awareness than everyone else but not enough for him to add her to the list. It’s more like she’s a nuisance – a flickering light in a half-lit room.

He catches her staring at him sometimes with a confused, almost panicked look on her face. Stiles will feel her eyes on him, like air pressure. He’ll turn to stare back. When their eyes meet sometimes, he thinks they go lighter – flash white. But then she looks away, and he loses interest.

Of course, their staring matches are noticed by Jackson, who starts his campaign against Stiles with a vengeance.

There were a lot of doctors at first – that he remembers. Lots of words like “flat affect” and “dead Flame,” “depression,” and “schizophrenia.” But Dad never checked him into the hospital. Stiles doesn’t think he could bear seeing another family member hooked up to machines and drugged to the gills. It’d be just as bad as Stiles dying.

He feels angry, sometimes. Distantly. Like he’s feeling someone else’s anger flow through his limbs and give him strength. When that happens, he can feel, and it doesn’t hurt. He can hear people talking to him (even if it only makes him angrier) and he listens in class and actually raises his hand. It almost shocks Harris into a heart attack. But it doesn’t hurt because it doesn’t last long. It’s like whipping your finger through the top of a flame, just fast enough that the heat can’t burn you.

Tonight is different.

He feels it rushing through his veins and tingling in his gums and nailbeds. Rage and sorrow and guilt and he can’t take it. He scratches at his chest and screams and howls and fights his dad when he comes in to hold him down.

“Stiles!” Dad’s screaming too, too loud, too close, “Stiles! You have to stop! Stop it, Stiles!”

He does stop eventually, and he’s left shaking with the echoes of emotions that he _knows_ aren’t his. It leaves him twitchy all day. He stays inside because hearing everyone so clearly, noticing them, is too painful right now.

That night though, his skin itches and he can’t sit still. There’s a pull toward the preserve. He ends up following his father out to the woods, leading Scott who’s looking more and more worried.

Stiles is caught by his dad but manages to save Scott from grounding. Of course, that means he has to leave him out there. All those feelings that tore at him last night (or that morning) are simmering just below the surface, and he can’t stop moving. Dad notices. But he doesn’t say anything. Stiles has moments like this. It’s normal.

But he’s never had one for so _long_ before.

He’s still aware two days later when he and Scott go back to the preserve to find his inhaler. Scott keeps shooting him looks, like he’s not sure whether to ask if Stiles is okay or not. Stiles doesn’t act like this. He doesn’t get involved like this. He doesn’t twitch and talk and laugh (even if it is hysterically). Stiles is supposed to be blank-faced. He’s supposed to be eerily focused on Scott or his dad. He doesn’t do _this_.

What does it say about his life that people are worried when he starts acting normal? Or… semi-normal?

And then the distant anger spikes. Stiles’ skin tries to flee his body when the dark figure steps out from behind a tree.

“This is private property.”

Stiles flicks his gaze over the black leather jacket, the Henley, the dark jeans. He glances at the stubbled jaw and cheek and locks onto the eyes. He twitches in recognition – something about the eyes.

And, wait, private property.

He gets them out of there. They can’t get in any more trouble this week. On the way home, Stiles babbles about the Hales. Derek Hale. Wasn’t there a Laura Hale too? Talia Hale had been a lawyer. They’d all burned in a fire. Scott looks interested, but Stiles can tell he’s still worried.

Stiles never babbles.

Before Scott gets out, he catches Stiles’ arm. Stiles jumps and wonders at the feel of skin on his. It’s weird. He’s not sure he likes it. He stares at Scott's hand. Scott just squeezes, “Are you okay, man?”

Stiles jerks his eyes up to Scott’s, remembering belatedly that Scott gets uncomfortable when Stiles doesn’t look him in the eyes when he talks, “Yeah. Yes. Good. I’m good. A-okay.” Scott just screws his face up into a worried, confused look. How did Stiles never see the puppy dog in his best friend?

Famous last words.

The week goes by, and suddenly his best friend is a werewolf.

Of course, Scott’s too distracted by Allison Argent to actually listen to him.

“A whole pack of wolves?” Scott has that whole confused puppy face going for him again. Worry is in there too, but that particular flavour of emotion has been on Scott’s face for the past week. He’s never seen Stiles this worked up. Stiles has never seen Stiles this worked up.

“No. Werewolves.”

Scott’s face relaxes, and he rolls his eyes, “Are you seriously wasting my time with this? You know I’m picking up Allison in an hour.”

Stiles caught him by the shoulders as he got up. Scott freezes, and Stiles knows why. This whole touching thing is new to him too, and he _never_ initiates the first contact.“I saw you on the field today, Scott. Okay? What you did wasn’t just amazing, alright. It was impossible.”

“Yeah, so I made a good shot.” Scott doesn’t move to dislodge his hold on him, but Stiles feels something uncomfortable rise up in his gut, and he takes a step back.

“No, you made an incredible shot, I mean… the way you moved? Your speed, your reflexes.? People can’t just suddenly do that overnight. And there’s the vision and the senses, and don’t even think I didn’t notice you don’t need your inhaler anymore.” He’s talking faster and faster as he goes through all the papers he’s printed and books he’s borrowed from the library.

“Okay! Dude, I can’t think about this now! We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Stiles whips around and jumps up again, nervous energy tingling through his limbs, “Tomorrow!? What? No! The full mon’s tonight! Don’t you get it?” He waves his hands around Scott’s general person.

“What are you trying to do?” Stiles deflates when Scott raises his voice. Scott must see it because he brings it back down again. “I just made first line. I got a date with a girl who I can’t believe wants to go out with me, and everything in my life is somehow perfect. Why are you trying to ruin it?” Stiles flinches. He sits back down in his chair and rifles through more papers.

Where the hell is that empty feeling when you need it? He’d love to just not care right now. He wants to be able to ignore the tone of Scott’s voice. But it’s Scott, so that won’t help either.

“I’m trying to help,” he says, “You’re cursed, Scott. You know, and the moon won’t just cause you to physically change. It also just so happens to be when your bloodlust is at its peak.”

“Bloodlust?”

“Yeah, your urge to kill.” Stiles faces him again, holding the book he was looking for.

“I’m already starting to feel an urge to kill, Stiles.”

Stiles ignores him, “You gotta hear this. Your change can be caused by ‘anger or anything that raises the pulse.’ Alright? I haven’t seen anyone raise your pulse like Allison does. You gotta cancel this date.” He gets up and goes for Scott’s back. That energy back again, but it’s different. Less nervous and wilder. He starts rummaging for Scott’s phone.

“What are you doing?” Scott sounds like he’s sighing.

“I’m cancelling the date.” Doesn’t he get it? He whips out the phone.

Suddenly there’s a roar, “NO!” Stiles is jerked back by the collar and shoved against the wall. The breath whooshes out of him. “GIVE IT TO ME!” Scott’s fist goes up, and Stile shuts down.

Why did he miss this? Now Scott is dull. Stiles can barely discern him from the room.

The weight lifts from his chest. “I’m sorry. I – I gotta go get ready for that party.” His head hurts.

He can barely hear Scott too. He’s less than what Lydia is. Stiles stands with his back to the wall, eyes staring at the bed listlessly. He thought there was something important about the papers all across it. Whatever, it’s not important anymore. His room has never been messy before. He should clean it up.

“I’m sorry.”

He registers the door shutting.

Later that blind rage-filled presence pulls him out of cleaning. He stops breathing for a moment. He doesn’t know what he hates more. Feeling that hate and anger or feeling nothing at all. He knows which one is easier.

There’s a howl in the distance, and he stands so fast he gets dizzy. He probably forgot to eat.

Scott.

He ends up picking up Scott on the side of the road near the preserve just as the sun is turning dawn to day.

Scott is worried then relieved when he sees that Stiles is not zombie Stiles. Stiles shoots him a look before driving toward home, “I’m not going to say I told you so, because I know you know that I did.” The guilty puppy face is back, and Stiles ignores it. He’s not even sure why he’s here. Scott isn’t even bright anymore when his world goes grey. Even Stiles’ subconscious or whatever doesn’t like him anymore.

Despite Scott leaving Allison stranded, they’re kissing the next weekend. Stiles knows because he gets a text at midnight. Stiles is starting to think Allison has some really low standards.

One of the bus drivers dies, and Scott is a little freaked out because he kind of remembers it. And then Allison’s aunt comes to town, and Derek is shot and nearly dying and asking Stiles to _cut off his arm_. Thank God Scott comes back from his date in time to save Stiles from doing something that might send him reeling back into apathy. Derek and Scott go on a ‘werewolves only’ field trip. Stiles finds out over the weekend (from Jackson of all people) that another person is dead. Scott fills him in later about the fact there’s a big scary Alpha werewolf. Because of course there is.

Scott is looking less and less worried when Stiles isn’t zombie Stiles. Even Stiles is starting to enjoy it. He wrote a paper on male circumcision the other day between all the crazy werewolf stuff. He doesn’t think he’s normal yet – whatever normal is supposed to be. He still feels detached somehow. Like that other person’s strength is giving him power and life. Like their rage and hurt and determination are keeping him upright on stilts and strings. He’s angry all the time. Manic. Frustrated. Stiles tries not to show it, but it gets harder and harder as the month goes on. He’s restless and nearly mad with sensations.

There are scratches on his chest and arms that don’t have time to heal before he’s opening them again, nearly every night as he tries to keep the screaming on the inside so his dad can get some sleep.

Scott and Allison go missing from school one day, and Stiles is a little lost. He makes eye contact with Lydia a few times. A blonde girl too. It’s a weird day, even for him.

And suddenly Scott says he has to stay away from Allison. At least, until he can get himself under control. Stiles might take the tiniest bit of revenge for Scott’s wall-shoving incident by pelting him with tennis balls. Later they team up with Derek again to call the Alpha to the school – because that’s such a good idea.

Stiles isn’t sure if it’s the adrenaline or something else that has him more aware than usual – even more so than he has been for the past month. The rage is closer to the surface than ever. Stiles blames that for the urge to run _at_ the Alpha instead of running away when the thing stabs Derek in the back with unreal claws.

They get it trapped, and Stiles says he’s going to get a look at it. He can’t not lean into the window. The rage is tugging at him, heart tripping in his chest that tells him to move in, get closer, _look._

“I’m not afraid of you,” he says. It’s true. For a weird second, there’s a sound almost like purring.

That’s when the thing goes through the ceiling.

The rest of the night gets hazier, Stiles’ focus goes in and out. They find a body. His dad finds them. The only good thing to come out of that night is school being cancelled until Monday.

It turns out Scott can’t get drunk. Stiles’ zombie-ness starts to creep back in again. The anger is fading until it simmers in his head, barely keeping him upright and aware.

The full moon is on Monday, and the rage turns into restlessness again. He gets put on the first line and can’t quite feel excited. There’s only that boiling heat. He uses it to fuel himself during Derek’s rescue. Jackson finds out about everything, apparently. Stiles just gets more frustrated.

Derek shows up in his room, unannounced. Stiles has the urge to chase him out. Territorial. That’s a new one. Dad knocks on the door to tell him he’s proud about the whole lacrosse thing. Stiles smiles but can tell when his dad sees the falseness of it.

“Son, I wish you’d talk to me.” His dad sighs, “You’ve been doing so much better this past month.”

“Yeah… I am. I just – I just need a little bit. Before we do the whole heart to heart thing. I need – I need time. Okay?” He hates himself for putting that look on his father’s face. But that’s not new either. He’s always been able to do that.

It’s the second time in a month he’s slammed into the wall of his own bedroom. The blankness doesn’t come back, but the rage spikes. Derek’s eyes flash blue. Derek backs off before he can finish his own threat. They stare at each other for a moment – Derek looking painfully confused. “Why do you smell like anger and pain?”

Stiles distracts him with tracing Allison’s text, Danny, and then the drive to the hospital to find out why Mellissa’s computer was sending Allison texts. Derek slams his head into the steering wheel after their touching moment of Stiles ‘giving up his dream’ of being first line. He never cared enough to tell Scott he didn’t want to play. It makes him wonder if he hadn’t been lost in that blankness if he’d have always been first line.

He goes into the hospital by himself, talking to Derek over the phone as he searches for Mellissa and then whoever the hell Nurse Jenny is. And then he’s looking for Uncle Peter.

“Yeah, well, he’s not here either.”

“What.”

Frustration bubbles up, “He’s not here, Derek.”

Derek would have burst his eardrums if he’d been in the same room with him, “It’s him! He’s the Alpha! Get out!” Stiles doesn’t even think about it; his body just turns. It turns away from the exit towards the pull that he only just now registers.

A man is standing not five feet from him. Stiles's eyes flick from the chin-length straggly hair to the burns on one side of a handsome face, to the eyes.

His heart stops. For a second, his whole body stops. He’s not breathing, not blinking, not living. He simply exists. He wallows in that second because that’s familiar and safe. That’s how he’s supposed to be.

But then their hearts beat, and he _feels_ again.

He remembers the empty hopelessness of the year after his mom died. He remembers feeling so destroyed, so lost and terrified. He remembers laughing with Scott too though. And rolling his eyes at Jackson’s antics. He remembers jealousy and rage and pain and happiness and relief and _everything_.

The man – Peter – smiles. Stiles's heart thrums hard and loud. His chest surges. He _likes_ that smile.

He hasn’t felt anything like this in six years.

And now that he does?

“You must be Stiles,” Peter says, voice smooth and low and Stiles shudders. His eyes roll back into his head.

He can’t take it.

\---

Stiles wakes up in bed. Not his bed, and not a hospital bed. It’s too comfy for that. He’s not in the hospital anymore. He can feel tears on his face. He wipes them away and opens his eyes. Panic starts bubbling in his chest. Where is he? He panics more because he _doesn’t panic_. What’s wrong with him?

“Dad?” his voice is breathless. It breaks, and it just scares him more, “Scott?”

“Your father and Scott are not here.” Stiles sits up in a rush, scrambling back and hitting the back of his skull on the headboard. His chest is still heaving, but just the sight of the man makes his breathing begin to even out.

He curses, “Peter.” He looks around but doesn’t see him. Light is coming from one of the two doorways, “Where am I?” _Why am I so awake? What did you do to me?_

“You had a panic attack.” Peter steps out of the door, a glass of water in his hand. Stiles almost says, _‘I don’t have panic attacks’_ , but Peter keeps talking, “I believe that is my fault.” He’s wearing a ridiculously low V-neck t-shirt and tight dark jeans. His hair is still long, but the scars are gone. He’s handsome in a decidedly scary, slightly insane Alpha way.

“Your fault…?” Stiles trails off at the sound of his voice, whispered and confused. He sounds scared and angry and curious. It sounds weird. His voice doesn’t do that. His voice is smooth. It’s toneless and soft. It’s comfortable. Or angry. This past month, his voice has been low and rough and angry. This one sounds stressed. That can’t be his voice.

He doesn’t like it.

He might kill Peter.

Stiles blinks and focuses again, “Why – why is this your fault?”

Peter holds out the glass of water, expression blank. “I know you’re smarter than that Stiles.”

Stiles takes the glass, but he doesn’t drink, “You’re my Flame.”

Peter sits gracefully on the end of the bed, “And you’re mine.” Stiles tries and fails to contain the full-body shiver. He stares at Stiles for a moment. Stiles takes a tentative sip of the water, then nearly downs it when he realizes how thirsty he is. Damn, water is _amazing_. “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles stops drinking and stares at him, lowering the cup when it’s obvious Peter isn’t going to continue. “You’re the reason I’ve been a zombie for six years.” It’s not like its news. He remembers driving down to that doctor in San Francisco because the doctor in San Diego had referred him to a Flammus Specialist.

“He’s the best in his field.” He said, “I’m sure he’d be very interested in your case.”

When they’d gotten there, the doctor practically shone with glee. “Your son,” He told Dad while Stiles stared a little to the left of the doctor’s shoulder. He couldn’t remember his name. He didn’t particularly care. “Has something I’ve only observed twice in my career and never in someone so young. I call it _extinguetur flamma._

“Extinguished Flame,” Stiles muttered. He was taking Latin. It was a high school class, but he was doing better than most of the older kids. They didn’t like him very much. That was fine. They left him alone.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had the sudden thought that he should do something. His Flame was dead. His twin soul. His soul mate. His other half. The better half (because it wasn’t very hard to be better than Stiles). Shouldn’t he do something for them? Feel something?

“Exactly, Stiles. Now, you know that when you meet the eyes of your Flame, both of your hearts stop and start in sync with each other. I believe that the physical – as well as psychological – connection, doesn’t stop there.” He was getting excited now, leaning forward with his hands clasped, “I believe that two people who are each other’s Flames, those with particularly strong connections, are _always_ connected and that when one suffers a physical trauma – or physiological for that matter – the other reflects it even before meeting for the first time. I call it the _speculum flamma_ effect.”

 _Mirror flame_ , Stiles thought absently.

“I thought you said he had the other one… the extinguished flame.”

The doctor put out his hands to calm Stiles’ father. “ _Extinguetur flamma_ is a subset of _speculum_. _Extinguetur_ occurs when… well, I’m afraid when a person’s Flame is near death, for an extended amount of time.” Dad’s breath hitched. The doctor rushed on, “Because Stiles’ prolonged apathy, it is most likely that his Flame in a vegetative state.”

They’d left soon after that. Dad in a state of shock and worry and Stiles… he stared out the window.

It was just one more person he didn’t have to feel for.

But now he is feeling. He’s feeling too much all at once in a strange bed. Even when the flashes of anger had come and gone, he didn’t become aware like this. Those had just been reflections.

Reflections of Peter.

Logically, he’s always known that _someone_ was making him this way, but he never really had the urge to blame someone. Now, here was Peter. Apologizing for wasting the past six years of Stiles’ life. Stiles wants to be angry. For six years, he’s been nothing but blank or angry. But that anger is diminished. It’s not gone because Stiles can still sense it on the edge of his mind – no longer filling that empty space, he realizes. He hasn’t been waking up this past month, Peter has.

They’re both awake now.

So, now Stiles is awake. Is he angry? Peter is. Peter’s _always_ angry. Maybe Stiles could fix that – but not right now. Stiles doesn’t think he’s angry. He’s probably a pretty mellow person. He thinks he remembers being pretty chill emotionally when he was younger.

It occurs to Stiles that he’s been staring at Peter while he thought through his feelings (it takes him longer than he likes but, hey, he’s out of practice).

It also occurs to Stiles that he _wants_ things. He’s used to hunger and thirst, but he actually wants to move closer to Peter. He thinks about Scott’s hand on his arm. Will it feel just as odd to have Peter’s hand on him?

Stiles moves away from the headboard. He crawls down the mess of sheets. Peter has no comforter. Maybe he runs hot. Stiles always wakes up in the middle of the night shivering because he fell asleep on top of his covers. Peter is still staring at him. Stiles likes his eyes. They’re a weird pale green but as he watches they flash burning red. The colour reminds Stiles of the raging anger in his head. He wants to get closer. He sits back with his feet under him and scoots across the space between them.

He might have an impulse control problem.

His knees are brushing Peter’s thigh now, and Peter’s just sitting there, staring at him. Stiles notices want clouding the anger at the edges of his brain. He smiles in twitches – he’s out of practice with real smiles. Stiles lifts a hand, hesitating over Peter’s where it rests on his thigh.

When he touches skin, his brain simply lights up.

Peter does run hot. His hand is smooth from not working in six years, and it’s big. Stiles picks it up to run his fingers up the sinew and bone. He places it on his own thigh and follows Peter’s muscles over his arm and onto his chest. He traces that stupid V.

“Stiles,” Peter leaned in at some point, and their faces are breaths apart.

Stiles finds he really wants to taste Peter.

Does he even have impulse control?

He’s never even thought of kissing someone. Even during his manic episodes, he wasn’t very focused. If he’s honest with himself, he was basically a psychopath.

Did that mean Peter was a psychopath?

Apparently, he doesn’t care because he leans the rest of the way in and touches Peter’s lips with his own. Peter doesn’t move, and Stiles puts some space between them. He’d closed his eyes when he wasn’t paying attention, but he doesn’t open them. Stiles licks his lips and tastes something that’s not his own flesh. A trace of Peter. He moves in again because he _wants_. He gives Peter a closed mouth kiss again. Licks his own lips. Presses his lips against Peter’s and runs his tongue over the seam of his mouth.

He hears a growl.

Stiles hadn’t liked the moments when the rage – Peter’s rage – made him aware. He preferred them to the blankness, usually, but he didn’t like them. He likes this. He brings his hands up from where they’re still splayed over Peter’s shoulders and chest to Peter’s jaw because he wants to know how it feels.

Peter’s jaw is locked.

Stiles comes back to himself in a wash of hot shame and embarrassment (he doesn’t like that feeling at _all_ ). Peter obviously doesn’t want to kiss a sixteen-year-old kid. It’s not like anyone has before. Although, he hadn’t really been paying attention, had he?

He lurches away from where Peter is still frozen on the bed except for the quick breaths he’s taking through his nose. Before he can move away, a hand circles his wrist and tightens. Peter’s growling revs like an engine. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Stiles.” Stiles looks up from staring at the sheets and fuming in his own humiliation. Peter’s eyes are bright flames.

Stiles’ arousal must hit them both because Peter lunges almost as soon as Stiles registers it himself.

If Stiles thought the first kiss was good, this one is extraordinary. Dangerous. Peter ravages his mouth, nipping at his lips with his teeth and finally catching the bottom one and pulling. Pulling a sound out of Stiles that he doesn’t mean to let go of, damn it.

It takes him a moment of kissing to realize he’s hard and rutting up against Peter, his hands clutching and fingers digging into his sides. Peter’s body covers his on the messy bed. He’s so big and hot – pun not intended. His own hands are trailing rough routes from the top of Stiles’ thighs over to where his hair disappears into his pants and then north to ruck Stiles’ shirt up and slip questing fingers under the fabric. Peter’s thumb rubs roughly over his nipple and Stiles whimpers. It's super of embarrassing. Peter delves back into Stiles’ mouth like he owns the place. Stiles has the crazy thought that he totally wouldn’t mind that being true. Peter shifts, a pleased hum escaping Stiles when he drags his teeth away from his lips and along his jaw. Stiles can feel Peter’s dick against his thigh now, and it amazes him how much he _wants_ it. How much he’s scared of it. How much he wants it because he’s scared of it.

Peter places his canines delicately over Stiles jugular, making him stay in this weird place between stillness and straining to rise up from the mattress to just be closer. His big hands move up to catch Stiles’ and pin them by his head.

Growls tumble from Peter’s throat again as he slowly but carefully closes the distance between skin and teeth. Stiles bucks up into Peter even as he tries not to move his upper body. Peter increases the pressure enough that Stiles is sure he’s about to be bitten – about to be turned. Despite the worry this thought causes – he doesn’t want to be a werewolf – his throat releases an unintentional mewl. He can feel Peter’s lips turning up against his skin.

How could he have wondered if this would feel good? Scott touching his arm was a fly landing on a whale compared to this; all this sensation in one moment.

And then Peter’s unlocking his jaw from Stiles’ throat, moving back up the path he traced earlier to leave blazing, wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw until their lips meet again. Peter groans into Stiles's mouth, an answering whine coming from Stiles. He releases Stiles’ hands to cup the back of his neck and knead the base.

Stiles’ newly discovered lack of impulse control makes itself known again when he immediately reaches for the front of Peter’s pants (which, by the way, are a simple snap button and zipper, this really is the man for him). The only reasons he stops is because Peter does.

“I’d rather not be arrested for statutory rape,” His breath ghosts over Stiles’s sweaty skin and his voice Is low and amused. Fucker. Stiles shivers, making Peter’s hands tighten on his neck and ass (when did that get there?). A sound of warning comes when Stiles arousal only spikes in response. “ _Stiles_ ,” Peter growls his name and, really, what makes his Flame think that’s going to bring down his erection? Stupid wolf.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Peter,” Stiles says, listening to his own voice carefully. He likes the way Peter’s name sounds in his voice. This new voice. But Peter is right. They can’t. Not right now. Because Stiles would regret it. There’s also the problem of Peter being a serial killer. And his father’s age. And – “Did you _kidnap_ me?” Peter gets up on his hands to look Stiles in the eye, the rest of his body just laying, hot and heavy, over Stiles’. He raises an eyebrow. “Oh my god, you dick! What about my dad!?”

“I think someone would notice if I kidnapped the sheriff. He’s still at work.”

Stiles brings a hand up to his face to rub at his temples, frustration wasn’t new. His own frustration didn’t feel that much different from Peter’s. “What about Derek?”

“He’s waiting for me outside.”

Stiles stops rubbing at his forehead and levels a glare at Peter. Irritation and embarrassment make his tone sharp, “You made out with me knowing your nephew was outside and could probably hear everything?”

“Derek grew up in a mostly werewolf household, Stiles,” Peter says way too logically, “He’s learned not to listen in at bedroom doors, purely out of self-preservation.”

“Because what he’ll hear will scar him or because you’ll kill him?” Stiles narrows his eyes.

Peter’s eyes go blank. That rage that filled Stiles for the past month rises up at the edges of his brain. It’s surprisingly easy to ignore it now that he’s got feelings of his own. “I only hurt people who have wronged my family. Who’ve killed them.”

He knows that already – had connected the dots days ago but, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind,” Stiles quotes. He doesn’t really believe it.

Peter rolls his eyes and climbs off him and out of bed. “Are you telling me if a group conspired to kill your father you wouldn’t hunt every last one of them down?” He walks into the bathroom as he talks. Stiles drinks the rest of the water from before their impromptu make-out session in place of an answer. “This is why we are Flames, Stiles. We are very much the same.”

“What about Scott?” Peter appears again to lean against the doorway, drying his hands on a fluffy looking hand towel. “You turned him against his will. He didn’t have anything to do with the fire.”

For the first time, Peter looks away. He doesn’t look guilty. Stiles doesn’t think Peter’s ever felt guilt. “I have been trapped inside my body for six years.” He meets Stiles accusing gaze again, “Not like you Stiles, able to walk and talk but not feel. I was the opposite. I could feel every millimetre of burned flesh healing itself ever so slowly for half a decade. My body shut down while it healed, and I was trapped inside. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Unable to change. For six years. The only family I had left disappeared. I was abandoned by pack. You don’t understand yet, but pack is vital to a wolf. Especially one so old and large as my pack was. By the time I could move again, I was quite insane. Jennifer – my nurse – nurtured that particular insanity. Encouraged it. I was not myself the night I bit Scott. I really haven’t been until I met your eyes.” Stiles hasn’t managed to hold on to his grudge even for the entirety of Peter’s monologue, but it would’ve died an unfortunate death at the awkward sincerity in Peter’s eyes as he says, “I am sorry.” His Flame does not pull off sincerity well.

They stare at each other for a minute before Stiles looks at his lap. He takes another few minutes to think. He clears his throat and glances back up at Peter. He’s surprised to see he hasn’t moved while Stiles mulled it over. “You’re going to help Scott control his wolfiness,” It isn’t so much a question as a demand. Still, Peter nods anyway, looking a bit amused. “You’ve got more people to take care of,” another nod, “And then what?”

“Rebuild.”

“That’s it?” Stiles side-eyes him, “No crazy world domination plan?” Peter tilts his head forward and raises one brow again as if to say _‘Really, Stiles, I’m not that dramatic.’_ Except Stiles has the feeling, he totally is. “You’re sane now?”

Peter considers him, “Think of it as a reboot for both of our systems. You regained your emotional capacity, and I regained my mental strength.” He splays his hands out in a way that is entirely too “come hither” for Stiles’ control. “As a result, I was able to finish healing myself as well.”

After a too-long look at Peter’s very nice face and body he nods, “Okay,” Stiles gets out of bed, pausing for a minute to let the head rush pass, and starts looking around. “Where are my shoes?”

“Why?” Stiles doesn’t turn to find out what expression goes with that innocently curious tone.

He locates them under the dresser by the door that doesn’t lead to the bathroom, “Never mind, I found them.” As he’s straightening up from shoving his feet into them, he feels breath on the back of his neck. Goosebumps spread from the point of contact outward.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Stiles wonders if it’s normal to be turned on by your Flame’s vaguely threatening questions while his very dangerous teeth are probably an inch from your very delicate throat. It’s obviously normal for Stiles. That’s probably all that matters. “I’m going to go back to my house so I can make dinner for my dad and come up with an excuse for why people probably saw me being carted away from the hospital by two strangers. I’m assuming my Jeep is here?”

“No one saw you being ‘carted away.’” Peter breathes in slowly.

“Are you sniffing me?”

“Your Jeep is outside,” Peter says, amusement obvious in his voice.

Stiles turns around to face him, a little surprised at the fact that they’re of the same height. “I still need to go make sure Dad doesn’t realize I’ve been taken. You and sourwolf out there should get you back to the hospital so that you can miraculously wake up from your slumber.”

Peter’s head is cocked to the side in apparent puzzlement, and the smile playing on his lips matches the humour Stiles heard in his voice, “Should we?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, licking his lips, thinking days ahead, “Actually, you should take care of whoever else you need to first. A coma is a good alibi. Make sure Derek doesn’t look too suspicious from now on. Dad’s still got an eye on him.”

“Anything else?” There’s something nearing contempt in his smirk as he keeps staring at Stiles.

Stiles narrows his eyes, “Yeah, one more thing.” He grabs Peter’s head and pulls him in for one last long filthy kiss. It’s a little sloppy, but Stiles is happy with it. “Finish up soon so we can fake-meet in the supermarket or something.”

The contempt is gone from Peter’s face, Stiles notes smugly. Peter’s too smart to not have caught up at this point though, “How are you going to explain your own miraculous recovery.”

“ _Speculum flamma_. You woke up from your coma, that’s why I’ve been so weird this past month. You’ve been waking up. It’ll be mostly true.” He pauses, hands still on Peter’s shoulders, Peter’s on his waist. “I want to tell my dad, eventually. The whole truth. Except for the murder part.”

Peter nods, “He’s going to be pack too.”

Stiles blinks, “Really?”

“Anyone who is pack to you will be pack to me.” Peter nearly rolls his eyes again, Stiles can tell.

He kisses him again just because he wants to.

A few minutes later Stiles is stepping out into a Spartan but nice living room and spotting Derek leaning against the wall nearest the front door. “Wow, I never noticed how hot you are.” Stiles blinks at Derek. Stiles feels the swell of possessive anger at the corners of his mind and elbows Peter. “Chill, he’s not nearly as pretty as you, dude.”

“Do not call me _dude_ unless you’d like me to call you by your first name.”

Stiles gives him a horrified look, “There’s no way you know my name, much less how to pronounce it.”There’s an offended scoff that makes Stiles want to grin. So he does.

Isn’t that cool?

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATED IN MY SURVEY!
> 
> Also, I put this as teen, but lmk if ya'll think it should be mature, I didn't think so but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Leave a comment on your way out and may you find many happy OTPs and AUs!


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